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Bicycle Tours in South Western Australia:Cottesloe - Margaret River - Bunbury6 days This is the second of a series of retrospective bike stories, of rides taken before 1987. 1987 was the first ride to be fully documented in the current format, with distances, speeds, rest stops and so on, moreover written as soon after the event as possible.
DAY 1, Cottesloe - Harvey MONDAY 22 NOVEMBER 1978 I hoped that this ride would be better than 1977, learning from the mistakes of the previous year. Unfortunately I didn't know what all the mistakes were. But one had certainly been, starting too late on a hot morning. So I decided to start at sunrise, which at that time of year is not long after 5 am. I had no definite objective, I was just going to see how far I could get in one day. I rose at 4:30 and I always remember the cacophony of bird-song in the summer morning twilight. I got my stuff together, the same bags as before, the same hat, the same clothes, then set off as the sun rose. It was quite cool so I wore a yellow cardigan, which I still have, somewhat out of shape now and not worn except at home alone. I took some bananas and milk to have breakfast on the road. I wore the extra strength green rubber thongs that my mother had given me when she didn't need them any more for her long walks from Oats St. station to Curtin University for Japanese class. I always wore thongs for cycling in those days. I remember a lecture from a person a couple of years later, when I was on a Cycle touring Association ride, about the folly of wearing thongs and the necessity to wear proper shoes when riding. I believe I had learnt from another mistake, that of not realising that over a long ride the sweat would soak though my canvas backpack and spoil any paper things in there. So since 1977 I have always lined it with a sturdy plastic bag. At about 6 am I stopped at Bibra Lake and had a leisurely breakfast. The winds were light and the morning beautiful and the traffic still quiet, and I felt good. My immediate plan was to reach Forrest Road and proceed in a south-easterly direction to by-pass Armadale via Soldiers Road and Eleventh Road and hit the South-Western Highway a little way south of Armadale, at Wungong. I had checked this on a map. At that time there was not so much urban development across this southern region. Vineyards, market gardens and little farms abounded, and the occasional 'Spaghetti Mansion' built by an Italian grown wealthy on grapes and vegies stood out in the landscape. It was still quite cool and a breeze was freshening from the west - an ominous sign if I had had the wit to read it in those days. I was still largely oblivious to the importance of weather conditions for a long-distance cyclist. I must have stopped for drinks and rest somewhere on this long trek to Wungong but I don't remember where or when. It was not until 1987 that I started to record such things. When I finally hit the South-Western Highway and turned yes, south-west, I was getting a bit tired and hadn't eaten enough or drunk enough, and the wind was right in my face and strengthening all the time. Later I was to hear on the news that it was the strongest 'sea breeze' ever recorded in the region, reaching 38 knots, about 70 kph, in Perth. Obviously higher speeds have been recorded for winds associated with winter storms, tropical cyclones or thunderstorms, but this was just an onshore breeze due to diurnal heating of the inland. The 38 knots was a record for that category of wind. I did start to take a rest every hour, and to take notice of the odometer, and my hourly speed was dropping until it got down to 12kph, then below 10. I rested at a non-place called North Dandalup (I never found south Dandalup) and couldn't go on for a while due to severe cramp in both legs, apart from all the other sorenesses. After another 15 km, at about 2 pm, I limped into Pinjarra and decided that this would do for the day. I crossed the bridge and the hotel was right there. I walked in and asked if they had a room, but although it was a Monday and not school holidays, they were fully booked - a special event of some kind was taking place and there was an unusual rush on accommodation in the town. They were sorry, said it would normally have been all right. They suggested I push on to Waroona or back-track up the Mandurah Road to Ravenswood where there might be a bed and breakfast. I rang up this place but they, too, were fully booked. At that time the old Pinjarra Hotel was the only accommodation in town. Finally I had to decide to push on and rang up and made a booking at the Waroona Hotel, another 24 km down the road. A brief interval of relief was afforded me when I left the hotel to go back over the bridge to make these 'phone calls, and the headwind became a strong tailwind for a few hundred metres! I turned south again and struggled through the town and out into the open country again. But it was no good. Cramps in both legs assailed me and I was just too sore elsewhere to be comfortable in the saddle. Four kilometres south of Pinjarra I was reduced to walking along with the bike and the wind blew and blew. At this point a man towing an empty horse float stopped and kindly offered me a lift. I gratefully accepted, the bike was stowed among the straw and horse poo and I sat in the front. We rolled through Waroona and I felt guilty as we passed the old hotel, now gone. I never did ring them up to explain or cancel. The man said he was turning off at Waterloo. I suppose that he was going to use the short cut to the South-West that I was not to discover until 1991. I suggested that I might get off at the Harvey turn-off. He agreed. We had a pleasant drive chatting about this and that. I think he was glad of the company and interested to meet a genuine nut-case. This was one of only three occasions on which I have accepted a lift on these rides. Two of them occurred on this 1978 ride, as we shall see. The other was in 2002. The country sped by, and soon it was time to get out. It was only about 50 km from the point where I was picked up, to the Harvey turn-off, so we did that in about half an hour. I thanked him, he wished me luck and I pedalled the kilometre into Harvey and again booked into the old hotel. The odometer showed that I had done about 91 km for the day, but it was reading a bit low and the real figure must have been close to 100 km. This was a lot more than any day's ride I had done before. I was sore but not so heat-affected as the previous year. I tied the bike up in the same place and went through the same routine, enjoying the shower and doing some washing. Once again there was a nice dinner in the old dining room, then I went upstairs to watch the small monochrome TV with the other guests. It happened to be the 15th anniversary of President Kennedy's assassination, so there was a story about that. I didn't sleep very well, I was probably dehydrated again and sore too. But it was cooler than on my previous stay.
DAY 2, Harvey - Bunbury TUESDAY 23 NOVEMBER 1978 I tried to get away reasonably early. I had a nice breakfast in the dining room and set off on the familiar road to Bunbury. When I reached Brunswick, just for a change I decided to take the road to Australind and come into Bunbury from there. The distance is about the same but it made a different route. I turned left at Australind and headed down the Old Coast Road for the last few kilometres into the city. This was the first time I had ridden on the Old Coast Road, the first of many. I crossed the bridge over the estuary and arrived in the city centre in the early afternoon. I didn't get into the Rose Hotel this time - I can't remember whether it was booked out, or whether I decided to stay somewhere else because of unhappy memories of the bad night I had had there in 1977. More probably it was booked out. I stayed instead at the Criterion, not far from the Rose, on the main street, a run-down old pub which is now gone, replaced by a new building. I locked up the bike and got into my room, and changed for a swim. I remember plodding up the hill feeling a bit tired and sore, into the face of a humid sea breeze. I enjoyed my swim at the rough Ocean Beach. I can't remember what I had for dinner, maybe Chinese again. I had a reasonable night's sleep.
DAY 3, Bunbury - Busselton WEDNESDAY 23 NOVEMBER 1978 The breakfast wasn't as good as it had been in the Rose in 1977, but it filled the spot. The weather stayed mild and breezy, with the wind in my face as I started towards Busselton, this time taking the correct way to find the main road. There was no rain this year and I didn't feel the need to stop so often. I stopped for a drink and a rest at Stratham, then continued to Capel. About a kilometre before Capel there was, on the other side of the road from the first isolated house, a sign saying Bunbury 27 km, when it should have been only 25. This sign is still there and it is still wrong. There was a stretch of open road before the town, and the headwind got up so that I was almost brought to a stop. I made my stop at Colroy's tearooms, a tradition that continued through the years. I didn't stop for a long lunch this time. I found a little relief from the wind as I entered the Tuart forest, and more as the road turned west and then north-west into Busselton. I was most relieved as I reached the end of Queen Street and turned right to book into the familiar Esplanade Hotel, but distressed at the sight of the wrecked jetty. Where there had been a proud long wide section extending straight from the end of Queen Street there was now a stretch of open water with an isolated fragment of timber structure far from shore and far from the junction of the railway jetty with the intact portion. The remaining jetty looked as though I could still walk on it anyway, and I was determined to do so. I booked into the hotel and got an upstairs room facing the sea again, but not overlooking it as I thought I remembered. Memory can distort reality. There is a wide stretch of land between the hotel and the sea. I locked the bike up under the fire escape again, then dumped everything in the room and set off on the now traditional walk under the pepper trees to the beach. After a choppy but welcome swim I went back and had the traditional long hot shower in the corner shower recess, washed my heavy clothes which I still wore on this ride and put on my evening clothes, then set off to wander around the town. I walked down to the junction with the main highway and telephoned my parents, was surprised to find that a 20 cent coin worked from this far away from Perth, disappointed when the call was soon cut off. I didn't know how STD worked in those days. My father was irritated when I rang back after inspecting the instructions and explained to him that I had only put 20 cents in before. I inspected the signs and saw that Margaret River was only 48 km away, so I decided to try for that the next day. I had no idea of the terrain and had no memory of ever having been to Margaret River, and my maps were still the inadequate 1960's ones I had used the previous year. I felt a bit flat on this evening - in 1977, reaching Busselton had been the culmination of a long struggle, but this year it had been too easy, I was here a day early and I was a bit ashamed of having failed and accepted a lift.
DAY 4, Busselton - Margaret River THURSDAY 24 NOVEMBER 1978 I got my breakfast delivered to the door on a tray again and enjoyed that. I don't think I took an early swim before setting off. I don't do that any more if I am facing a challenging day, as this was, setting off for the unknown. I wait until the challenge has been overcome before relaxing with a swim. Sea bathing can suck out a lot of calories. After showering I got ready, paid (I hadn't got into the way of paying the night before, and hotels didn't demand it in those days) and set off down the Bussell Highway as though going to Dunsborough, but with the intention of turning left about 7 km out and heading down the unknown (to me) part of the Bussell Highway. At that time Busselton had not spread so much westwards along the shore and the little Vasse store, about 7 km out at the junction with Caves Road, stood out. I stopped here for a drink, not knowing when the next chance would come. I turned left to continue on the Bussell Highway to Margaret River. I had no idea of the topography and had never heard of the Wicher Range. I continued along the gently rising road and had another chance for a drink stop at Carbunup River store, 17 km from Busselton, an old place with a wide wooden verandah. After this the road began to rise more steeply and it was hard work, harder perhaps because I had not been expecting it and didn't know how long it would go on. I laboured on until I passed a little place called Metricup, with a tiny church. I stopped to have a look at the church. There was no-one about so I just walked in and tried the pedal organ. Then I had a snack from a bag of aging loquats that my friend Rosemary had given me. I don't carry bags of fresh fruit on rides any more. At last I got to a levelling out of the road and reached Cowaramup, about 13 km from Margaret River. I stopped for a drink at the shop, then rolled downhill for a while before the climbing started again. Finally I reached the bridge over the Margaret River and rolled over it into the town. At this point I thought that something was wrong with the bike, because I couldn't pedal it in top gear. I got off and checked the machine, then looked up and realised that I was facing quite a steep climb into the town. I had a case of 'hill blindness' which I had never before experienced, when I could not see the angle of the road ahead. I had had some idea that I was on the level. I rode up to the old Margaret River hotel, the only place to stay in those days. There were no motel units at the back of it at that time. It was old and gloomy and rather depressing. I got a room and locked up my bike at the back, against a rail beside a gutter next to the back door. I dumped as much as possible of my stuff in my room with its brown furniture (but no ensuite of course), and checked the map to find where the local beach might be. I had had some idea that Margaret River was closer to the coast. In fact I had to go up the hill a bit more, then go right, down Wallcliffe Road until I found Gnarabup Beach. The day was well on so I decided to get on and do it. It was an 11km trip, including a steep downhill run and an equally steep climb about halfway. I got to the beach area and found the Prevelly Park resort, much bigger now. The white tower of a church stood out as a landmark. It took me a while to find my way onto the actual beach. It was a lovely beach, in the same class as Meelup, though not quite that good. I enjoyed my swim. Then I got on the bike and laboured back up the hill, then down and up the dip in the road, and so back to the town. I had a shower, changed my clothes and had dinner in the bar, a counter meal. Afterwards I watched the black and white television in the guest lounge, which was just an area half way up the stairs. Those were the days when the ABC used to show Australian drama in the evenings. This night's offering was 'Bit Part', an excellent show starring Stuart Wagstaff and John Meillon, a fine actor who was born and died perhaps 10 or 20 years too early to enjoy the acclaim that he should have received.
DAY 5, Margaret River - Busselton FRIDAY 25 NOVEMBER 1978 The day was cloudy and windy with westerly winds and showers. I felt a bit depressed - I didn't see any spooks or anything, but that old hotel had a bad feeling about it, or so it seemed at the time. I had a full breakfast in the old dining room, got packed up and paid. I queried the cost of breakfast, for which they charged you for each bite, almost. The hotel was run by the Auto Motels chain in those days. I got going at mid-morning. I was intending to go back to Busselton eventually but in the blithe unworried way I still had in those days I thought it would be fun to take a detour through Yallingup and see the cave, perhaps swim at the famous beach. So after going up the Bussell Highway for a bit, I turned left into Carter's Road and headed for Caves Road. I remember stopping to rest and shelter at some bend on Carter's Road, having a cigarette and a drink of orange juice as a shower came through. I reached Caves Road, turned north and rode up and down hills until I reached Yallingup. I had last been there in 1962 when I was driven around half asleep on drugs and I had no memory of the place. It was just a paved area with a shop and a signpost and a shed or two, a post office as well, I think. The main town was apparently down the hill so I rushed down the steep descent and arrived at the shop and café just as another shower swept through. I remember this time in the café as an enjoyable interlude. It was full of surfie types waiting for the weather to improve - the surf looked excellent - and holiday-makers. There were pies and drinks and toasted sandwiches, and a juke-box, and the TV was tuned to the ABC and showing the cricket Test Match between Australia and England. This was the 'official' test match, because this was during the two year period of the 'Packer rebels' versus the traditional cricket, and most of Australia's best players had deserted the team for the 'Packer cricket'. So Australia were the underdogs against England, and were to go on to lose the series, but on this day Rodney Hogg was taking wickets for Australia and things looked promising. I hung around for a long time, eating and drinking and talking to people and watching cricket. I didn't get a swim at all. In those days I didn't go swimming in winter or in anything but mild to hot weather. Eventually I left and trudged up the hill with the old bike that couldn't have been ridden up a hill like that. I mounted at the top, rode through the area and onto the road that went downhill until I saw the sign for Yallingup Cave. I turned left and sped down the steep curving descent until I reached the hole in the ground that was the entrance. There was just a small kiosk and a boy charging a dollar. I was the only one there so he took me down and I had a one-man guided tour. I always remember this, my first tour of one of the famous caves of this region, as an especially magical experience. I had a great chat with the guide as we went around and discussed the formations and other things. He had given me a stencilled page - no computers and limited photocopying at that time - describing the formations and telling me to look out for the 'elephant', etc. It was designed for children. I got into a state of mind as we went deeper and the lights were effective in building this. When we reached the bottom of the cave and I looked at the sheet of calcite with its little formations, disappearing into the darkness beyond the bottom, it seemed I was on the shores of the River Styx, facing the stygian Underworld on the other side. He pointed out the 'Cave Mysteries', small stalactites that had grown sideways and in spirals instead of straight down. The mysteries have been explained now, the modern handouts tell how they are formed, but in 1978 visitors were invited to think of an explanation. Eventually we got back to the top and I once again had to trudge the bike up to the main road. The weather had developed during my time underground and showers were longer and more frequent and the wind was strong from the west. I reached the start of the 4 kilometre downhill run towards Dunsborough. The road had recently been re-surfaced and widened and the surface was smooth, with sand and water sweeping across and down it in the wind and rain. I rushed down that hill, I think the old bike had never gone so fast, nor ever would again. The speedo topped 60 kph but it wasn't totally reliable. At the foot of the hill I rushed straight through Dunsborough and continued on to Busselton. It was wet but the road was flat and the wind carried me along and I was in a state of euphoria. I reached Busselton in under an hour and the weather had improved. I rode up Queen Street and turned left at Marine Terrace to find my traditional Esplanade hotel. I booked in, got an upstairs room facing the sea again, dumped the wet stuff and set off on the traditional trudge to the beach, under the peppermint trees and past the tennis court and the little theatre. It was not really swimming weather but I had missed out all day and I wasn't at home where I could swim here any time. I had the water to myself and enjoyed the swim. After that I enjoyed a long hot shower and washed my clothes, then changed and left the hotel and sought out the Golden Barn, still there, still busy and still a great place to eat. I really enjoyed my meal and once again there was a happy party of young people at a long table, celebrating something, I suppose the end of the school year. I expect their children have long since had a similar celebration, helped along perhaps by mull and ecstasy as well as wine and beer. As I waited at the counter to pay, there was a group of people there chatting and laughing. Among them was the man who had been serving at the Yallingup Beach Café. He recognised me and said "I remember you, you were on a bicycle, I gave you your lunch or brekky or whatever." I smiled and said "fuel". I meant of course food to power the engine of a bicycle, the rider, but he seemed a bit taken aback. Perhaps he thought I said 'fool'. I don't know. My social and communication skills were yet to be honed by the onward rush of life. I was in many ways immature and undeveloped for a 34 year old. The weather had cleared up and there was a cool breeze from the south, and I decided to attempt a walk on the remains of the jetty. What was left of it was quite sound in those days. No maintenance was done for many years and it was being allowed to fall down until they decided at last to spend money and fix it up and light it and make it the tourist attraction it deserves to be. I found the start of the railway jetty, now the main thing, unlit and unfenced at that time. I walked along to the junction with the main jetty and continued carefully, listening to the clunk of timber and the slosh of water and being careful to avoid any gaps. I eventually reached the end, where a beacon still flashed. I climbed up onto the beacon platform, found the flash blinding and carefully came down again. After that I made my way back to the shore. This whole exercise was a bit dangerous and irresponsible, but I was younger and fitter then and had better eyesight and fewer aches and pains.
DAY 6, Busselton - Bunbury SATURDAY 26 NOVEMBER 1978 I slept well and enjoyed breakfast delivered to my room. I can't remember whether I had another quick morning swim - I might have done. The day was sunny and cool and there was a moderate south-westerly wind blowing, which promised an easy run to Bunbury. I had decided already to take the train at Bunbury, as I had the previous year. I headed down Queen Street, over the river, down the Causeway and was cruising along the Bussell Highway, 3 km out, when just opposite a garage, there was a snap and a dragging sound, the pedals swung freely but with no push. I looked down and saw that the chain was broken. Suddenly in a fraction of a second the good feeling I had and the enjoyable ride ahead were destroyed. I felt something like panic. I crossed the road and asked at the garage if they had anything that could help me, like another chain, but they didn't. It was only mid-morning, I had plenty of time. I could have 'scooted' the bike to Bunbury with the following wind, or back to Busselton and found a bicycle shop. But I stood forlornly beside the road and thumbed a lift. A lady kindly stopped in what used to be called a hatchback. I told her what had happened and it was only then that she realised that I had a bike with me, and she wasn't happy. Bikes were still uncommon on metropolitan and country roads in 1978. I apologised, but she decided to help me anyway instead of roaring off. I had a newspaper with me and we used that to line the back of the car so that the dirty old bike could be shoved in. We drove off and she relaxed as we chatted and she became interested in my story, and told me about things of her own. We got to Bunbury in less than an hour and I had a long time to wait for the train. I was rather ashamed. Once the panic had subsided I was thinking that the 'scooting' option might have been better. But she was happy enough, seemed to have enjoyed my company, and I extracted the bike and the dirty newspaper without scratching or staining her car. We said goodbye and I dragged the bike over to a lawn next to a wall near the station and had a drink and a smoke. After that I wrapped the broken chain in a piece of newspaper, threw the rest of the paper away and took everything over to the station, where I bought a ticket for self and bike and saw it and most of the luggage safely into the luggage area. Then I trudged up Wellington Street for a swim. After my stormy swim at the Back Beach I changed into dry clothes and traipsed around Bunbury, looking at remembered places again. I had a snack somewhere. At 3pm the train moved off with myself and all my stuff aboard. At Brunswick it stopped to let on a few more passengers, one of whom was a lady whom I recognised as a fellow member of the cycle touring association, which I had joined earlier that year. She sat opposite me - the old Australind had seats facing little tables. We told our stories. She had been on a ride with the CTA and they had been going downhill on a gravel track when she slipped and cut her leg on the sprocket of the bike. They had somehow patched her up and got her and her bike and stuff to the station and saw her onto the train to go home. She was still in her cycling shorts and showed me her inner thigh with a wound on it in the shape of a row of cogs. I told her about my broken chain. She said, not very impressed, 'so you just had a broken chain, eh.' As an experienced cycle tourist she was surprised that I would not have allowed for that possibility and carried stuff to fix it if it happened. I have done, ever since 1978, and of course it has never happened again. At Perth station I put everything on the suburban diesel train and got it home to Cottesloe. That was the end of the 1978 ride, a ride of extreme highs and lows. And of more learning experiences. I spent the day after getting back, learning of the mysteries of chains and how they are made and fixed and installed.
Charles A. Pierce 18 Railway Street COTTESLOE 6011 10 March 2006.
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